Westfield High School - Weather Vane Yearbook (Westfield, NJ)

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THE WEATHER VANE DOES WESTFIELD HICII SCHOOL WANT A MAOAZ1NE? As this school year ends, one great question looms up into view— Does the Westfield High School want a magazine next year? Our Weather Vane has been something to be proud of, something that helps W. II. S. to keep its high reputation. It ought to have been, and has been of interest to every one in the school. During the two years since the Weather Vane was first started, it has been increasing rapidly in size and importance. It has passed safely the dangers of infancy, and is now a good-sized paper. Are we, the students of the Westfield High School—the persons for whose benefit the magazine was started and has been kept up—are we going to let it fall flat, just when it is ready to burst into bloom ? Shall we—because of the lack of a little effort—let the hard work of the first two years result in nothing ? It is up to every one of us to make the magazine a go. If we could only make “every student a contributor,’’ if each person would buy his own magazine instead of reading his neighbor’s or not reading any—the Weather Vane would flourish with all the vigor of the student body behind it. After all, Westfield High is our school. We are the students who make it, and as such, we should see that everything pertaining to it is of the best. We want the Weather Vane to sell widely—not for the cash alone, but so that the people of Westfield may see what we are doing and how we compare with other schools. You can make if sell! It is well known that a person gets out of a thing as much as he puts into it. and so—if each student contributed to the Weather Vane, he would have an immediate interest in seeing that it sold. The editors can't do all the work. Heretofore they have collected and corrected all the material, and now they are being asked to write it. The Weather Vane isn't for the benefit of the editorial staff. It is for

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24 THE WEATHER VANE Best girl dancer—Frances Jennings. Best boy dancer—Eddy Edwards. Best sport—Robert Wright. Biggest bluffer—William Frederick. Biggest dirt—Catherine Hornung. Class carpenter—Charles Weller. Peppiest -Marie u Braillard. Laziest Frederick Braun. Luckiest—Walter MacOowatt. Noisiest- -Halsey Cook. Wittiest -Edward Hub. rt. Who thinks he is—William Price. Ten o’clock scholar—Edwin Ganzel. Happy-go-lucky—('harles Wilson. Class philosopher—Gilmore Spencer. Class dreamer—Lucille Burke. Least known—Helen Martin. Most desirous of r. nown—Stanley Carlson. Best sleeper—Matthew Glass. Jolliest—.Stanford Hendrickson. Class cook—Dorothy Dushanek. Class Seamstress—Marion Braillard. Most romantic—Elsie Kent. Brightest—Anne Out water. Class dumbbell—Audrey Block. Jazziest—Nesbitt Powell. Quietest girl—No such thing. Quietest boy—John Russell. Rosiest—Elmer ’hattin. Biggest teaser—Horace Baker. Most conscientious- Willctta Taylor. Most punctual—Gordon Hahn. Biggest primper—Olive Clark. Most inquisitive—Ruth Ludy. Class Bin ik—Philip Aks. Newest—Eleanor Wood. Better half—Marjorie Harnish. Class chemist—Paul Reidel. Class physicist—Laurence Argnimhau. Class Romeo—Robert Sinclair.

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2( THE WEATHER VANE tin student body—for VOl’. You must lie its supporters. The magazine is not a cold outsider. It is your school paper—your representative in the school world. It is yours! Will you let it fail? Gwendolen Crane Smith, '25. CHENG'S VENGEANCE The steamship Esther Dollar sailed from Boston, Novcmh. r eighteenth, hound for the Orient. With her she carried the bones of three hundred and fifty Chinese who had died in New England, some of them as long ago as 1889. Two days out a storm struck her. The Esther Dollar was an old ship that should have been retired years ago, and full of cracks and creaks and dirt. In the gathering storm she lurched onward siekeninglv. The captain swore at his men, and the engineer swore at his engines; all the crew was panic-stricken. The storm increased its fury. Down in the hold crouched limply a stowaway who had found refuge in a kind of well formed by hundreds of boxes piled on all sides. These rose straight up into shadows beyond the light of a flickering Christmas candle set in its own wax on a box ledge. The cubby was a little world of its own. One could conceive of nothing beyond the confining walls ami the suffocating blackness above. Even the crevice through which the man had entered was obliterated by a blue shirt and a muddy pair of overalls. Four feet wide and four feet long! Hardly a desirable haven for even such as he. Lying down full length was impossible, but he did not wish to sleep. He sat tailor fashion on a heap of bags, with a blanket drawn over his thin knees, staring at the Hame. The candle had burnt down to its base, and now he took another from a heap of vari-colored ones in a red and white box, and stuck it in the melted wax. Tlu green and white and pink Christmas candles amused him. Good cheer and warmth and popcorn. He grinned vacantly. lie was mad, insane. His wizened old form and dishevelled hair over Id..... eyes attested that. “Shannon Spear, Shannon Spear, Shannon Spear, Shannon Spear. he muttered endlessly through his cracked lips, “Shannon Spear, and chuckled, coughing. He paid no attention to the rolling ship or the creaking beams. The storm rose in intensity and the lookout could not see through tin torrents the derelict ahead. A tearing thud ground her bottom for a moment; then the ship crept forward again, lazily, and listing gradually to port. The captain called his men to the pumps. All was useless, how-